


they'll inherit your bones

by Cookie_Thief



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cookie_Thief/pseuds/Cookie_Thief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day is young, and her final days, like the rest of them, are full to the brink with things she must do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they'll inherit your bones

(X.)

  
She realizes it as she hacks her way through a particularly sturdy hurlock.

  
Alistair had promised her months to prepare, a steady worsening that would give her time - to accept, to bury, to forgive. To make plans.

  
Instead, there is only a jolt down her spine, the beginnings of a headache that announces a vision, and then she is on her knees. Her fingers dig into the ground, dirt clumping up around her. The edges of her vision go white, and she feels tears running down her face.

  
Someone calls her name, but the ringing in her ears is too loud for her distinguish who. She scrabbles up, barely manages to swing her legs away from the hurlock. Her eyes are caught on its axe, embedded in the ground where her legs had been, moments ago. She can't feel them- not her legs, not her arms, nothing but pain.

  
This time, her name comes as a scream from somewhere behind her. She opens her mouth to call back, to reassure everyone that she is fine, but only air comes out.

  
Above her is the hurlock, its burned, wretched face staring down at her. She is horrified by it as she has never been, not even when she'd first met one in the deep roads. There is something in its eyes.  
It's her. Something passes between them, some base understanding of what calls to them both, and then her entire being is arching up in agony.

  
She screams, imagines her throat ripping apart and blood seeping through her, screams louder. She can hear the archdemon but, no- the archdemon is dead, she had killed it herself, she had. She had-

An arrow flies through the air and embeds itself in the hurlock's skull.

  
Blood showers down on her, black with taint. It drips into her mouth, stretched around a scream, and she is silenced finally, by her gagging.

  
She struggles to right herself, struggles to deafen herself to the whisperings of the taint.

  
Nathaniel is at her side in an instant.

  
"Warden-Commander! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" His face is close, so close. He grips her tight by the elbow.

  
"No." She rasps, and holds him close, this boy who had been let down by everyone he'd ever trusted. "I'm dying."

 

(IX.)

  
The first thing she does is visit her brother.

  
"Sister," He greets her. "Welcome home."

  
The thing with Bhelen is that she can never quite be sure how much of him is a performance.

  
"Brother." She says, and leaves it at that.

  
They dine in the grandest of the halls in the palace. When they were children, their father would hold grand feasts, inviting all the nobles to sit and sate their poisonous appetites. She and Trian and Bhelen would sit at his side, children still, and yet equal to the greatest of these nobles.

From what she hears, the hall sees little use nowadays. Bhelen does not pretend to care for the weak.

Bhelen sits at the head of the table, and she takes the seat immediately to his right. A king and a commander, just like Father wanted.

She'd asked Father every day since she'd turned six to teach her how to fight. He'd laughed the laugh of an amused parent and scruffed her hair, told her that she was brave, that she was clever, that the weapons she'd wield would be sharper than any sword. The lessons had been important, perhaps, had taught her how to survive in the Diamond Quarter, how to bow and scrape when she had to, how to wield the thousand of years of glory and power in her blood like a physical force. But Sereda hadn't a soul for manipulation and propriety. She was interested in her own glory, not in that of others.

It was Bhelen who had, in the secrecy of night, taught her how to wield a sword.

"Why are you here, sister?" Bhelen asks. "Amaranthine is a world away."

"Indeed it is." Sereda says, looking at the rich foods in front of her, at the glittering of the gems embedded in the pillars.

"So what could it possibly be, I ask myself, that my exile sister wants from me?" Bhelen's voice is sharp, like the rest of him. She does not know where this sharpness comes from. There were no sharp edges to the Aeducans, not until they had carved them into themselves.

"I'm not an exile anymore." She says idly.

He nods imperiously, as if he is granting her a favour.

"I never wanted to be king." She says finally. It is a truth that has weighed heavily on her for years. "Harrowmont would have made me one."

He takes her in, considering. A silence falls upon them, and Sereda takes the opportunity to drink in the sight of the hall, of all the splendor that would have been hers.

"You would have been a queen, actually." Her traitor brother says.

"No." She says, and it is a cold comfort that even if she had never known her brother's true face, then at least he has still has no idea of hers. "I would have been a king. A good king. A king the paragons themselves would have bowed to."

Bhelen scoffs. "You know, sister, since you've come so far, I'll grant you a gift. I'll give you this; it could have gone the other way."

"How kingly of you." She says.

They look at each other, the remnants of the once great house Aeducan. Great still, so long as you only look upon it from the outside. She takes him in, the sharp ridges of him, the hungriness that never went away, the clever set of his brow. She does not love this brother of hers, does not love this wicked, wicked king. She does not need to- he is family.

It is not about love, not here under the surface. Here it is only this: the same blood that runs through her veins runs through his. She is not alone. And so they sit there, the two of them, holding between the ghosts of all they've done, all they've destroyed to get their way.

"I'm going to the deep roads soon." She says. "I'm going to hack my way through as many darkspawn as I can, go as deep as I can. It'd be a great boon for you, to be seen supporting me as I do this."

"And you would help me? At the the cost of your life? After everything?" He says, laughing. "You're more fool than I thought. I was doing Orzammar a favour when I threw you from the stone."

"You have killed my brother and my father and would have killed me too if it was not for Father and Lord Harrowmont's mercy. And I helped you kill him, because I knew what was right. I know my duty, Bhelen, even when you do not." She spat.

"And so you will help me."

"And so I will help you."

It is not about love, this deep under the surface, but Sereda has not forgotten. She has not forgotten, a young boy, pulling her by the hand through the palace and whispering to her in the dead of night: "He's a fool if he thinks he can stop us Serada. You'll master your knives yet, and then we'll kill all the darkspawn together. Each and every last blighted one. They'll make us paragons, and people will stand side by side to bow to us."

She'd laughed, child that she was, and been sure that this would be true.

 

(VIII.)

Wynne is long gone by the time she reaches the Circle.

A somber looking Greagoir tells her of Wynne's demise, though he starts by saying that a letter had been sent to her immediately after the fact. She doesn't doubt it, can practically remember swiping some unimportant looking letter off her desk in her hurry to save one village or another. Or perhaps she'd opened it, perhaps her eyes had looked without understanding, without wanting to understand. She'd gotten so many letters, so many deaths. She'd lost Wynne, the closest she'd ever come to a mother, in that void.

Greagoir talks to her in consoling tones, saying that she died bravely, that generation after generation of mages will look at Wynne as an example to be emulated.

"As a paragon." She says, and Greagoir makes that peculiar face humans make when they realize, all of a sudden, that she is dwarven and not just some vertically challenged member of their kind.

She visits Wynne's grave the next morning, decked in the formal armour of the Warden Commander. She schools her face into one of contained sorrow, befitting of someone of her rank. She will be, for today at least, what Wynne had wanted her to be.

There are flowers and a half dozen small wrapped gifts adorning the tree they'd planted in her honor. She smiles, because she knows without knowing that these come from younger mages, lost children that Wynne had plucked from the darkness.

"Hello, old friend." She says, laying one hand on the sturdy wooden trunk. "I see you've left all us wayward children to go sit at the side of your Maker."

She wets her lip. Greagoir had said they'd burnt her body and sprinkled the ashes at the base of the planting grounds. It had only been two years ago, but the tree already stands shoulder to shoulder to those that have hundreds of years under their belt. There must be something of Wynne in its roots.

She lays her head against the trunk and closes her eyes against the trees.

"Wynne." She says, and lets her voice quiver. Wynne had never been fooled by her bluster. "Wynne, I don't want to die. I don't want to go down there, into the deep roads. But I know my duty, I know- Just, put in a good word with your Maker for me, all right? And, if everything goes right, I'll be with you soon enough so you can tell me off for self-pity, or whatever."

There are children coming up the hill. Teenage mages, a pack of them, followed closely by a pack of templars. Anders had once told her that he hadn't been allowed even once to step outside of the tower in all his years there.

It wouldn't do for them to see the Warden Commander crying onto a tree like a lost child, so she pushes away without saying goodbye. She knows Wynne is watching over her.

"What are you doing with these mages?" She calls to one of the templars.

He recognizes her immediately, straightens his spine and bows to her. She inclines her head in return.

"They're here to pay their respects, Warden." He says. "To all the templars who died to protect them, and to pray for the templars fighting to protect the world from magic right now."

She glances over at the mages. They wear identical looks of tamped down anger.

The riots, the rebellions, and the rites of anullment have long bothered her, but as Warden Commander she has no place in this particular war. The world was changing, but the templars didn't seem to like it one bit.

She shares nothing in spirit with her brother except this: they have little tolerance for those mired in the ways of the past.

"Have they any respect to pay?" She asks.

Wynne had always defended the Circle, but she wouldn't have defended this. Not a one of these templars would have dared to overstep so far if Wynne had still been here, if things had been as they once were.  
"I don't understand-" He begins, before Sereda leaps forwards and knocks him to the ground. The first blow knocks the wind from his lungs, and the second sends him into the land of the unconscious.  
The mages cluster around her, not sure how to react. They swing between fear and joy, unsure what will be done to them now that their prisoner and protector is temporarily gone. She tosses her helm to them.  
"Run, if you want." She says. "If you get far enough, find the Wardens. Give them that, and tell them I sent you. They'll take you into their ranks. It'll be a hard life, but it'll be yours."

 

(VII.)

She finds Shale in Redcliffe, newly returned from some grand adventure or another.

"I hear you're a hero." She calls to her over the din of the tavern.

"Oh, these soft squishy things will make heroes out of anyone even slightly more durable than themselves. Which is to say everything, of course."

She laughs, and downs the rest of her pint. The drink settles on her like an old friend.

"So is that the plan then? Wander the world for the rest of your days, watching the world change around you?"

Shale nods, her normally impassive face taking on what Sereda has learned to interpret as a conspiratorial look. "Your poor influence, I suppose. Given me a taste for adventure, you have."

"Ah, so I'll live on forever as the inspiration for the great Shale." She grins. "It's not a bad grab at immortality."

Shale laughs, hearty and true, and gives her a friendly tap on the shoulder that knocks her off her stool. She falls, laughing, and gets up, laughing, and basks in the attention of every single living soul in the tavern.

"You know," She says, "You'll get to see it all. The whole thing, you'll get to see it."

"Mm. What is there to see? More of the folly of your squishy kind? And it won't even be there to provide some amusement."

"Well, I'll live for a little longer yet."

"It should have asked Caridin to make it a golem. Imagine what you could have accomplished given immortality."

She smiles, and reaches to hold Shale's face in her hands. She loves Shale dearly, but she can't bring herself to explain the truth that Shale could never accept. She wasn't interested in accomplishing anything, not anymore. She'd done her share. What she wanted now was a quiet home and a nice, long life where she could watch the world go by.

Instead of saying anything, she reaches into her bag and takes out what might be the most precious object she has touched in her entire life.

"Is that-" Shale says, astonishment coloring her voice.

"Yes. Crystalized lyrium. Imagine what power you could wield with these. Us soft squishy things would think twice about even looking at you. It was pretty expensive, but I knew it would be wasted on anyone but you."

It had cost her most everything she'd owned, actually, but she wouldn't need money soon enough. Shale is everlasting, and so is the smile the breaks across the golem's face.  
Shale is frozen for a moment. Then, she lays a single, rocky hand on Sereda's shoulder. It is a considerable weight, and it grounds her. To this moment, to this life. The bustle of the tavern is a blanket around them and the drink warms her and her friend's love soothes her pain, and she-

She is not dead yet.

 

(VI.)

Leliana is the easiest of them to find. She resides, with the rest of the Inquisition, in Skyhold.

It's an impressive fortress, by human standards. Still, Serada is a Warden and an Aeducan, and it takes her little effort to sneak her way into the room of the Inquisition's spymaster.

Leliana is sitting at her desk, poring over reports, when she sees her.

"Sereda! I've not seen you in so long! Come," She says, not missing a beat. "Come, sit at my side, and tell me your stories."

They spend the night like they did so many nights at camp. Sereda sits and Leliana begins to braid her hair from behind her, singing softly under her tongue. Once in a while Sereda would break the silence to share some anecdote of life at Amaranthine, or Leliana would pause to explain some aspect of her song.

Like in camp, they fall asleep entangled, and wake up with their limbs sprawled over each other.

The morning sun falls over them both, stirring them from their sleep. There were no heavy sleeping rogues, or at least none that survived for long.  
In the morning light, Leliana reached out to tuck a strand of Sereda's hair behind her ear.

"This war is almost over, you know. The Inquisitor has been very successful. If only you'd help her, then all the nobles in Ferelden would fall in line and all this would be over in moments."

"I've nothing to give." She says, looking into Leliana's eyes. So much beauty, they'd seen. So much terror. "Nothing but my sword. Make a ceremony of it. Give it to her, and they will know that the Warden-Commander of Ferelden stands with her."

"Thank you, my friend." Leliana smiles then, slyly. "You know, I have been thinking about what I will do, when all of this is over."

"Have you?"

"I have indeed. And I find myself in sore need of the company of old friends. We could run away, you know. The both of us. Disappear, and travel the world, dance and sing and drink to our hearts content."

"I doubt it'd be as easy as that."

"And why not? The world is changing, Sereda. There won't be a Blight for another hundred years, at least, and the Chantry has begun to find its way."

"Yes," Sereda says, suddenly heavy with the truth. "The world is changing, but I won't live to see it."

"Ah. I'd feared so." Leliana says. Tears shine in her eyes but she does not let them fall. Instead, Leliana laces their hands together and tucks Sereda's head under her chin. "This is the end, then."

"I'm sorry. It's my time."

Something wet drips onto her head. She does not have enough tears left in her to cry alongside Leliana.

"I wish I could come with you." Leliana says.

"I know," She kisses Leliana's forehead as she rises from the tangle of their limbs. The day is young, and her final days, like the rest of them, are full to the brink with things she must do. "I know."  
"I won't let them forget you." Leliana promises. "Not a one."

 

(V.)

She is on her way out of Skyhold when a large, one-eyed Qunari steps in her path.

"You have friends in high places." He says by way of greeting.

"Do I know you?" She snaps, displeased to have been diverted from her course.

"No." He admits easily. "But I know you. And so do the rest of the Qunari. It caused quite a stir, you know, when one of our own left and came back talking about a single dwarf worthy of the Qun. High praise, coming from the Arishok."

"Is Sten the Arishok now?" Qunari politics are shrouded in mystery, and little news reaches her of her friend in a distant land.

"The Arishok is the Arishok." The man said, and then stepped aside to let her pass. "He said to me, as I left, to do as you said if we ever came to meet. He said that you were as an arrow- one could either give in or get out, but there was no remaining unchanged."

"And why are you telling me this?" She asked, one foot ready to leave, and the other bound to the ground.

"Because I've heard rumours that you wouldn't be around long enough for him to tell you himself. It seemed like the kind of thing you should know."

She nods, first to herself, and then to the Qunari.

"Thank you." She says, and turns to go.


End file.
